Past Imperfect

took his eyes off Gerome all the time — not only the constant need to tend and watch for any changes in breathing and pulse — but because he didn't want to meet Monique's eyes: frantic, pleading… surely it couldn't be? All the years she'd feared something like this happening, though mainly with Yves because of his work, and in the end it had been Gerome.

Dominic could almost feel her thoughts coming across in waves without looking up. And it had all been due to his obsession with justice for Christian. No… No! It was unthinkable. He couldn't let it happen. Gerome wouldn't die. Yet from the blood loss and the weakness of Gerome's pulse and breathing, he knew that they would be lucky to save Gerome. It would be a desperate race against time.

'How far now to the hospital at Draguignan?' he asked the gendarme driving.

'Fourteen, fifteen kilometres. Five, six minutes at most.'

Gerome hadn't at any time regained consciousness, and Dominic started to think of the many equally as unacceptable alternatives: coma, mental impairment, paralysis… a pall of hopelessness descending as he took in the full horror of his son's shattered, bloodied body. He scrunched his eyes tight, and suddenly he had an image of Gerome as a young child, playing in the sea, and him lifting Gerome above a wave that threatened to swamp him… lifting him out of danger and planting kisses on his smiling cheek as Gerome shrieked with excitement, feeling the slight tremble in Gerome's small body. And he wished he could do that now, just lift him free of the danger. But as he opened his eyes he was back with the stark flashing glare and horror, blurred now from his tears welling.

Seeing his anguish, Monique commented: 'We'll be there soon.'

Her first words since asking 'Is he going to live?' as her initial wailing panic had subsided. Dominic had responded hastily, Yes,' not even thinking whether he might be lying. Reflected his wish in that moment more than what he believed.

Minutes later, as they burst through swing doors at Draguignan hospital with Gerome alongside on a gurney led by two medics, Dominic's mobile phone started ringing. He didn't answer it. His other life as a policeman could wait a while. All that mattered was Gerome.

Guy Lepoille viewed the photo sent from Contarge at Le Figaro on his computer screen. He'd asked Contarge to send through a scanned image by modem to Interpol's X400 server so that he could pull it up.

A few keyboard taps and he blew it up to 4x image enlargement, cropping in on the number plate. As Contarge mentioned, all visible except the last two numbers. He deliberated for only a second before deciding to put out the nationwide alert first. He phoned through to NCB Division II, from where it would be routed through to Interpol National and within minutes would be broadcast to regional stations and police cars throughout France.

Then he dialled Dominic's number. Tell him the good news: everything was already in motion, the hunt for Duclos was on in earnest. But the number rang without answering.

Lepoille looked back thoughtfully at his computer screen as he hung up. Those last two numbers bothered him. Some impressive image recognition equipment had been installed the past few years by Division 4, primarily for counterfeit bill or art theft and fraud detection. If he put the image through its paces, he wondered if he might pull up the last two numbers.

A 1 or a 4, a 3 or an 8? All Lepoille could make out were vague shadows. He enlarged to 16x magnification and started piecing together the likely shape that the blurred dots remaining might have taken. Then he asked the computer for percentage likelihoods for each suggestion. After seven minutes, he had an 83 % on a 4 on one number and 74 % on an 8 on the other, with all other choices scoring less than 10 %. Full house! Got the bastard. Lepoille let out a little yelp and clapped his hands, causing a few people in the computer room to look over.

Lepoille put through an update to the NCB division, then tried Dominic again.

Duclos sat in the car park of the motorway services at Brignoles-Cambarette.

As he'd raced up to the N7 junction only two kilometres from Fornier's farmhouse, he'd had to decide quickly what to do. He didn't want to head straight for the airfield, there was almost an hour to spare and, besides, if Fornier was following, the last thing he wanted to do was lead him straight there!

But which way to head? He hadn't seen any lights turn out, but what if the realization hit Fornier a minute later and he decided to give chase?

He decided on west, heading deeper into France; east towards Nice and the Italian border would be the more obvious choice for anyone following. Five kilometres along some headlamps looming up quickly in his rear- view mirror worried him, and he took the E80 motorway turn-off. They didn't follow. He continued heading west and a few kilometres further on pondered what to do. He didn't want to head too far away from the airfield, yet didn't want to stop on the hard shoulder: too open, too conspicuous for any passing police cars. He also needed a main junction turn off in order to turn and head back the way he'd come.

It was then that he'd decided on the next motorway services at Brignoles-Cambarette. Another twenty-one kilometres, it would take him less than ten minutes and only be fifteen-sixteen minutes away from the airfield.

Duclos looked at his watch: 9.23 pm. Sixteen minutes into his thirty minute wait in the car park. It had felt like a lifetime. He'd parked at the very back of the car park where few people passed and might notice him. Only two cars had so far come around the back in search of parking spaces, and he'd ducked down out of sight.

He could see the hub of activity of people parking and entering the service complex of shops and restaurants forty metres ahead. He'd parked facing so that he'd be forewarned of anything suspicious, any out of place movements or cars approaching. His nerves had bristled as a police car approached — but it went straight through without hardly pausing.

Looking on at the activity, the hustle, bustle ahead — brought home to him more acutely the fugitive, the outcast he had become. Mothers and fathers with their children, young couples, old couples, teenagers, people on holiday from the north — dining, buying souvenirs and gifts, grabbing a few snacks and groceries. A tableau, a microcosm of life in France — and he was sitting outside it all, alone in the dark at the back of the car park.

Sitting outside their merry little circle… in the same way that he had sat outside Betina's and Joel's life all through the years. Damn them! Betina. Joel. Corbeix. Fornier… especially Fornier! 'Damn the lot of you!' Duclos shouted, sure that his voice had carried no more than a few metres away; nobody had heard him.

Perhaps that was why Fornier hadn't re-appeared to chase him. Brossard had been lying in wait, had already blasted the wife and then the son — and then put a hole clean through Fornier as soon as he appeared. The thought put a thin smile on Duclos' lips. The first all day.

Ker-vrooom… bap… bap! Duclos jumped, his heart pounding, eyes darting sharply towards the sound: five cars to the right, battered old Opel, bad exhaust by the sound of it. Duclos' nerves slowly settled back as he watched it pull out and away, but he was still anxious that he hadn't noticed anyone approach. They must have come from the petrol pumps to one side and circled around the back. He would have to be more alert. He could have looked up to see a gendarme standing by his side window.

But in the remaining minutes, though he was more vigilant in keeping an eye on all directions, the incident had unnerved him. The events of the day had slow-boiled his nerves, but it was as if the car starting had suddenly turned the flame up high.

Each sound — leaves rustling, a car door slamming rows away, footsteps on gravel in the distance, voices by the main service's entrance — cut straight through him, his nerves thrumming like taut piano wire. His hands were shaking, his palms sweaty. He steadied them on the steering wheel only to discover that his whole body was trembling.

Duclos slowly closed his eyes. The sounds ahead, the people milling around, the succession of cars passing in and out — everything seemed to be closing in. There was a ringing in his ears, a dull ache at the back of his head. Even when he opened his eyes again, he could hear his own pounding pulse.

He suddenly felt the way he had earlier in the service cafe — that someone among the throng ahead would see him, pick him out sitting in the shadows at the back of the car park, and start walking towards him, pointing. And suddenly there would be a crowd following, all pointing, shouting: Duclos. Duclos!